


Breathe, Keep Breathing

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to "As You Were." What if van Horn’s arrow had found its target?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe, Keep Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric form the song "Exit Music (for a film)" by Radiohead

Peter couldn’t believe what he was seeing – it was too surreal.

Time literally slowed as he watched Henry van Horn – the CEO of a multinational, billion-dollar corporation – take aim at Neal with what looked like a crossbow, but it was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The bolts were at least two feet long, and it apparently had laser sights – an impressive weapon, to be sure – but one their prime suspect was currently aiming at his fleeing friend.

From his position across the atrium, Peter could only watch helplessly as van Horn squared his stance and calmly fired his weapon. The whine of the bolt was clearly audible as it flew with deadly accuracy, and when it hit its target, Peter felt his own heart stop as he saw his partner go down.

\----

Neal couldn’t believe what he was feeling – or rather, not feeling. It was too surreal.

He’d run from van Horn, dodging, keeping his head down, trying to make himself as hard a target as possible. He felt when the arrow hit him because it propelled him forward with such force it knocked him off his feet. He felt the jarring in his arms and knees as he hit the floor and skidded to a stop, heard the _skritch-skritch-skritch_ of his shoes as he slid. He could feel the bone-shuddering squeal of the steel-tipped arrow that had impaled him gouging a channel in the highly polished marble of the floor when he made contact.

What he didn’t feel was any pain.

\----

“Van Horn!” Peter yelled, drawing his Glock and taking aim at the man across the atrium from where he stood. Van Horn turned his head, and Peter could see the look on his face – murderous, triumphant. He half-turned toward Peter, opening himself up, improving Peter’s target. Peter lost no time thinking; he fired off two rounds quickly _pop-pop_ and hit him squarely in the chest and throat. He went down without a sound.

“Boss!” Diana shouted, and Peter’s head turned with a snap.

“Man down!” he said to her, and he was amazed at how calm he sounded. “Call it in. Call it in.”

Diana nodded and headed back down the stairs at a run – whatever signal jamming methods the building’s security was employing were making comms impossible. Peter hoped they didn’t extend too far out from the building when she reached ground level to call for the medics.

Peter turned and ran around the outer hallways as fast as he could. When he rounded the last turn, he skidded to a stop in front of van Horn’s body – he was unmoving, clearly dead. He looked up and thirty feet down the hall he saw Neal, lying prone, the arrow black and obscene as it protruded from his body.

\----

Neal couldn’t move. That wasn’t strictly true – his right hand was moving as he pressed his fingertips into the cold marble of the floor, trying to gain some sort of purchase and push himself to his feet. Somewhere in his mind, his flight instincts were still screaming at him, but his muscles simply refused to comply. His legs felt like water balloons – heavy, ungainly. And his arms were like cooked spaghetti – limp and useless. But his right hand was apparently still willing to give it a go.

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on coordinating his muscles more effectively so that he could just get the hell out of there. He didn’t know where van Horn was, but he had to be near. If this was one of the slasher flicks Neal loved in high school, he’d be standing over Neal right now, aiming that damn crossbow at his head. He tensed up as if he expected the blow at any moment, because he did.

So when a pair of hands took hold of his shoulders and turned him onto his side, he screamed in terror.

“Neal!”

“Peter,” Neal said with a sigh, but the relief he felt was shortlived. “Van Horn!”

“He’s dead. Jesus, Neal. Jesus!” Peter said. He was kneeling behind Neal, had him propped against his lap; the arrow that impaled him made lying on his back impossible. Peter’s hand hovered ineffectually over where the arrow’s head protruded from Neal’s belly. Neal craned his head forward to see; there was surprisingly little blood.

“That’s gonna hurt,” he said.

“Shh, don’t talk. Christ!” Peter said and Neal looked up at him. He was as white as a sheet.

“Shhh,” Neal parroted. Peter looked upset, so Neal tried to comfort him. He tried to move his hand to put it over Peter’s where it grasped his arm. “It’s OK, Peter.”

“Don’t talk, dammit, Neal! For once, can you just listen to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just…” his voice trailed off.

“Peter…I found Jimmy. He’s locked in a room upstairs.”

“Fine, fine. Don’t worry about that now, OK?” Peter reached a hand up to loosen the buttons at Neal’s throat, but it was stained with blood. He quickly pulled it away, wiped it on his own slacks before again moving to loosen the buttons, but Neal had already seen.

“Is it bad?” he said.

“I don’t know, I don’t know. Just…be quiet, OK? Be quiet.”

Neal nodded and closed his eyes.

\----

Peter knelt with Neal leaning against his lap, almost afraid to touch him. The arrow. Had gone. Through him. It was mad, unthinkable. _Neal._

He craned his head to his right and looked at where the shaft of the arrow stuck out of Neal, its butt end nearly touching the floor. Blood was _drip-drip-dripping_ along its shaft, landing on the floor like rain drops. He couldn’t help thinking there should have been more blood – surely a man impaled by 30-odd inches of carbon steel ought to bleed more. He hoped it meant no major blood vessels had been severed, but he didn’t know. He tried to remember some of those statistics they’d taught them in First Aid class – how much blood was in the human body? How much could a person lose and still survive?

He concentrated on his breathing – he had to remain calm. Neal needed him to be calm. Neal was pretty freaking calm himself, come to think of it. He must be in shock, Peter reasoned. Was that a good thing? It never sounded like a good thing on ER.

He glanced nervously at his watch – how long before the paramedics might reasonably be expected to arrive? How long before his agents would be able to secure the building’s security room and re-activate the elevators? How long before he had to freak out completely?

Jesus Christ, where was his backup?

As if on cue, voices started to transmit over the earbud he wore – someone had switched off the jamming equipment.

_“Are we up?”_ came a voice.

_“We’re up.”_

_“Jesus, are these mother effers stocked up for Armageddon, or what?”_

_“Shut up, asshole, we’ve got a man down.”_ That was Jones’ voice. All other chatter ceased. _“Diana, do we have an ETA on the paramedics?”_

_“Fifteen minutes, minimum,”_ she replied.

“Fuck me,” Peter whispered. Fifteen minutes felt like an eternity.

_“Boss, you hear that?”_ Jones asked.

“I copy,” Peter said.

_“How’s Neal doing?”_

“Not good. He said you can find Jimmy in a locked room on Nine.”

_“Copy that.”_

Peter leaned forward and looked down at his CI. “You hear that, Neal? Fifteen minutes until the paramedics get here. Only fifteen minutes.”

Neal’s eyes were still closed, but he didn’t react to what he said. “Neal?” Peter said, taking his chin in his right hand and trying to rouse him. “Neal!”

\----

“Neal!”

Neal opened his eyes with a start. He’d only closed them for a second. Hadn’t he? “What?!”

“Stay with me, buddy, please?” Peter sounded frantic.

He nodded. And he felt dizzy, funnily enough. And hot too, which was strange. And suddenly, shockingly, in excruciating pain. “Peter!” he gasped, and it was _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_ and he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t hear. All he knew was pain.

He threw his arm out, flailing, kicked his leg out. His hand met with something solid. It was…warm. And…cloth? Peter’s shoulder. He grabbed onto it. It didn’t help. He screamed, “Peter!”

He could feel Peter but not hear him. He knew Peter was leaning over him, he felt his breath, he was pressed up against him.

_PeterPeterPeter!!!_ he shouted. Did he shout? He couldn't tell, didn’t know, had no other awareness but searing, unrelenting, inexorable pain.

“Neal, listen to me! Listen!”

Peter was talking to him. He was…holding his face. He was…talking over his cries. He was… calm. And solid. And present. And _Peter_.

Slowly, his senses came back to him. He could hear now, hear Peter chanting, “Look at me, Neal, look at me!” He could see now, see Peter’s steady brown eyes mere inches from his, willing him to respond. He could feel now, feel more than the pain, he felt Peter’s warm hand grasping his shoulder, his quick heartbeat where he held him against his chest.

“Look at me, Neal. Just…look.”

Neal looked into Peter’s eyes and saw calm there, serenity in their depths. He drew strength from them. He was able to calm himself, still the panic. Breathe.

He found his voice also, finally. “Peter. Help me.”

“I’m right here, buddy. Right here.”

“Don’t leave.”

“Not going anywhere. But you have to promise me the same. You promise?”

Neal thought he nodded.

“You owe me two and a half years, I still own your ass,” Peter said.

Was he joking? About Neal’s sentence? Well, if he was joking…

“You’re not getting rid of me……that easily, Agent Burke.”

“Good. Cuz I’ve gotten kind of used to you being around.”

“I want to stay,” Neal said, a sudden hitch in his breath. Christ, was he crying now? He was, but given the circumstances, he figured allowances could be made. And given certain recent events – the treasure, Moz’s endless exit strategies, his breakup with Sara – there was far too much meaning behind those words.

“Then stay,” Peter replied, and Neal may have imagined it, but he thought there was more meaning behind Peter’s words too.

“I will, I promise. I won’t leave.”

And he meant it.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
